


As You Do

by hellhoundsprey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bondage, Bottom Dean Winchester, Dom Cain (Supernatural), Implied/Referenced Prostitution, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking, Sub Dean Winchester, Top Cain (Supernatural), implied/referenced cain/castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29804559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: https://hellhoundsprey.tumblr.com/post/632900345311444992 <- the tags. would be so fucking down for this as well. with a dash of toxicity mainly stemming from dean being overconfident and hypersexual and cain all "boy are you sure?" and basically "I'm a good guy so it's better if he comes to me than to anybody else". (Dean is 22, Cain is 43.)
Relationships: Cain/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 44





	As You Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClaraxBarton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/gifts).



‘Just rollin’ through,’ he had said; added a, “Couple of weeks maybe, or a month.” Flash sale mentality. Get it while you can.

Cain’s counted three weeks and some change. Dean had caved, eventually, embarrassed: Dad’s looking at houses, I don’t know. A little brother, good college in town. Cain didn’t intend to get all that insight. It just happened to trickle down the line.

Dean, in the mornings; his hand swoops over Cain’s forearm and a mumbled, “Coffee?” The distant-close warmth of him in Cain’s bed.

Those toes play against Cain’s shins.

~

“How old are you?”

Squint, leer. “How old are _you_?”

“Let’s see some ID.”

“Dude,” he says, and, “seriously?” but Cain’s palm remains upturned and his jaw stays set.

Those big eyes roll like this is a movie. A sigh to go with it. Kid does reach for his wallet, though.

“If you think you’re flattering me: you’re really not.”

Kid slaps the thing into Cain’s hand. Cain offers, “Thank you,” and holds it up to read—Winchester, Dean. Nineteen seventy-nine. Oh, well. He hands it back. “Acceptable.”

A scoff. “Excuse me?”

“Are you looking for something specific today?”

“Nah. Yeah,” corrects Dean, bomber jacket and denim jeans, hippie-bracelets and he turns to look around the store, the shelves. His hand comes up after stowing his wallet to gesture into the room like he’s grasping for something. “The, uhm.” He snaps his finger; eyes back to Cain for directions. “Whiskey?”

Cain points him accordingly.

“Awesome.”

Cain emerges from back behind the counter to follow along. Dean throws him a glare but doesn’t say anything.

Dean pretends to not be bothered at all by the unwanted supervision. Cain keeps his arms behind his back and stays put while the kid browses. Choppy, indecisive. The tips of his ears pink up eventually.

“If I may,” and Cain doesn’t wait for permission but he reaches out careful enough that Dean can make way, can let him pick a bottle off the shelf to show him. “A customer favorite. Very smooth for its price range. Not what I’d recommend for special occasions, but it does make a fine bedtime candy.”

Half a smile, freckles. He skims the label. “How much?”

“Fifty.”

Half a frown.

“Plus taxes,” says Cain.

~

“Give me your hand.”

Cain gets what he wants.

“Thank you,” he says and winds the rope around that wrist. Up that forearm, the barely-there hair. Freckles here, too. “Your foot, please.”

A huff, secret. Into those crisp sheets, while Cain fastens the knots. Cain notices. Acknowledges.

“Is this all right?” and the kid nods, somewhat. “Words, boy.”

Cain gets a, “Yeah,” and a steady, deep exhale as he runs his hand down that spine. He taps that other wrist, the milky inside of that forearm. The change of color settles into those fingers. Good.

Cain doesn’t miss—the shift, once he climbs up on the bed. That immediate squirm, the test of the bonds when he skips below that arm, dips his fingers into the crease of the kid’s ass. The easy spread of it, tied up like he is. A shaky inhale. Cain imagines him curling his hips back and up. An offering.

“Have you been fucked before?”

“Yeah.”

“You can be honest with me.”

“I am,” blurts Dean. “I _have_.”

“Hm.” Cain pets down that furled skin, down the seam of Dean’s taint. His balls. “We can do that, too. If that is something you’d be interested in.”

“Dude,” and it sounds like a warning, a growl. “How much more of a goddamn invitation do you _need_ , huh?”

~

The bouquet keeps demanding Dean’s attention over and over. Finally, over breakfast, he breaks.

A vague, dismissive gesture. Cain’s guest robe sits loose on him; beautiful. Hunched, because kids these days can’t sit straight anymore.

“Pretty French,” tries the boy who takes his coffee black and plenty of honey on his buttered toast. “Your boyfriend got you these?”

~

“You do this a lot?” (The dusty back office with the desk, the files. Closed blinds which are dusty, too. Bright afternoon, outside, somewhere.)

Cain looks on as his zipper gets undone, his suspenders unclipped.

Dean raises an eyebrow, one side of his mouth.

“Why, do _you_?”

Once the access is there, Dean’s face crowds right in. One hand on Cain’s hip and the other gathers Cain’s balls and he breathes the entire thing down, only half-hard with what was mere anticipation a second ago, and Cain flails inside.

Oh, why is it always the pretty ones.

Cain scrutinizes, “Slow,” but Dean’s hollowing his cheeks, bobs his head—eyes closed, and he only pauses once Cain gets a hand in his hair, grabs it tight. Looks up, then, cruel and warm. Pulls back slow so his lips tug along needlessly obscene, and he pushes back down just as controlled. Jesus, he hasn’t even blinked.

With Cas out of town, it’s been a while. Cain isn’t proud.

A tremble when Dean lets him go just to lap along the side of it, to drag lips and teeth and tongue and to huff wet over it like a dog. Eyes still locked with Cain, not going anywhere. Those knees are spread so wide on Cain’s floor and Cain itches with the sudden (yet predictable) urge to get his boot up there, give the boy some type of plaything. Flashes to what he could have asked for, instead. To what he might get away with if he asks, nicely. For an extra bottle, maybe.

The second Cain lets go of that hair, Dean lets loose all over again. Turns his head, loses his rhythm. Playful, testing. A laugh for Cain, wiping his hair back up his forehead for him; out of his too-long lashes. Peach-fuzz on that upper lip, a first flush to those lips. Licked and sealed once more. A soft gush of breath from that nose, right up into Cain’s pubes.

Once Dean’s got him all the way hard, he works the head exclusively. Rolls his tongue and sucks hard enough for it to ache while his damned hand keeps kneading Cain’s balls, and Cain groans soft, pumps his hips in an attempt to get more. All of it. No hands on the kid, just—testing how far he’ll let it go. How much he is willing to give.

Low, “Hey, now,” like the high ground is all Dean’s; a tut and a smug little smile, just the pillow of that tongue for a beat before Dean grabs him with that available hand. He pumps the length of Cain’s cock firm while his lips wrap around the tip anew, swirls his grip and bobs his head and, wow, just—what did Cain get himself into, here?

Cain snarls but Dean’s acting on other cues, probably. Feels him fattening further against his puffed lips or maybe notices the clench of his nuts, but—he hums, like a _yes_ , and he closes his eyes again while he keeps it up. Not a second wasted.

Cain groans, stupid, “Don’t—swallow,” in an afterthought.

Dean doesn’t, he thinks, once he can think again. Keeps getting nursed at, has it drawn out for him to the point of too much. He has to push the kid off, has to wipe his hand over his face. Sinks back and down onto the desk, one arm behind him and his eyes hidden behind his palm. Just—breathing. Floating.

He hears the kid getting up and grudgingly moves, then. Pats himself down for a tissue and finds one, hands it over to the pinched-looking kid. An awkward spit-and-discard to the desktop—a cloth tissue, so Dean doesn’t dare toss it in the nearby bin. He’s not happy about it and Cain chuckles for that, the fickle of all of Dean.

How the boy wipes his palms on his thighs, clears his throat. He pretends to look around the room before he realizes how embarrassingly unspectacular it is.

Cain offers, “Come here,” and the kid does, blindly; just half a step, really. Realization ghosts across that face when Cain reaches out, a tremble to that jaw.

“I don’t kiss,” he says, just early enough that Cain can cup his neck instead of his cheek and make it look intentional.

Dean keeps fixing him while Cain just—drinks him in. Studies how that heat mixes sour with reality. That still-rabbit-quick pulse against Cain’s thumb.

Grumbled, knowing: “Take a fucking picture, why don’t you; it’ll last longer.”

~

The store had been Cas’ idea. The guy hadn’t been much into drinking at all back then but he’d understood that the quarter would take well to a well-arranged specialty shop like that. Honey and wines, maybe spices? Gins, okay. Local ciders, of course.

Always such a romantic, that man. That constant glare to throw you off, but Cain prides himself with his relentlessness. Wining and dining and nights spent talking. Literature, arts. A good cigar.

Dean does his best to be undeterred by—well, everything. The casual stride of him past antiques and ornaments and how he throws himself onto Cain’s two-seater like he’s some kind of tramp, a true brat. His ID might be fake but he’s not _that_ young and dumb.

He opens his mouth to something impolite but Cain interrupts with, “Relax,” and those brows knit adorably, and he shuts up as easy as that. Sinks deeper into what is not comfortable the way he’s flung himself onto it and watches Cain move around the room. Cognac, two glasses. “Just a drop. What do you say?”

“Sure,” like he’s done this a thousand times. Cain fears he might have.

“Don’t you have school? Work?” Pouring, turning. Dean shakes his head and takes the offered drink, sits upright just polite enough.

“Don’t got anything right now. Just rollin’ through,” and they toast, and they drink, and Cain sinks to sit on the armrest and watches the boy cradle the heavy crystal glass, the boyish inward-curl of those shoulders. “If you need help with like, inventory? By all means, I could use the money.”

“I figured that much, yes,” and Dean’s face tells him that was too much, and Cain scoffs, drinks. “You are very handsome, and I know you know that. But I am not interested in making this a business relationship.”

Dean translates, “So, you don’t wanna pay me to suck your dick again.”

“Yes.”

“Then why am I here?”

“I figured—” begins Cain, and Dean has nearly decided to just get up and leave by the looks of him, but he doesn’t. “—that, since you don’t have anything better to do right now, and this town as lovely as it is doesn’t have much to offer for a bored young man such as yourself, I figured I would take it upon myself to supply at least _some_ sort of entertainment. If you are interested in this kind of thing at all.”

Scoff, shuffle: “Look, old man, I’m not blowing you for free.”

“So what if I blew you instead?”

A frown.

“Or we don’t do any of that at all. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

“What?” and, “Why?” and, finally, “I’m not—I’m not gay. I’m not into this kind of—”

“I’ve lived in this town for over two decades now, boy,” and Dean cringes, and he’s almost up and away once more, “and trust me, anyone else aching for you to turn tricks on them has died or moved away a long, long time ago.”

~

“My little brother gave that to me. I don’t know.”

Cain wants to know (not exactly sincere but he just likes to hear the boy talk at all), “How little?” but gets pushed off with how that is none of his business, gets that pendant dragged out of his grasp. But Dean lets him crawl back soon enough. Lets Cain pick up his wrist and litter it with kisses, allows his fingers to be inspected; that freshly split nail. Cain kisses that, too.

Finally, weak, “Stop that,” so Cain sucks that thumb into his mouth instead.

~

That shy, shy tremble.

Cain licks over it again, smears his thumb over it again.

Gets a faint, “Jesus,” and a hand into his hair. Searching. Unsure.

He mouths at that taint instead. Lets Dean feel his beard, digs his chin forward, easy.

Dean sighs. Cain slips his hand across the shiver of that belly, the rolls of skin and cotton that stick until he untangles, lays bare. Strawberry-blond, ginger. Sparse here, too.

Cain gets a hand on that beautiful dick while he presses his tongue flat over Dean’s asshole and Dean slurs, “Fuck,” and drops his head back into the cushions. Drags his fingers through Cain’s hair, across Cain’s scalp. Wet already. Cain spreads that slick with his thumb, circles the slit, that frenulum.

“I take it not many pay for this,”

and Dean growls, “Oh, shut _up_ ,” but he pulls Cain back down, and his asshole kisses back at Cain’s mouth. Lets him push his tongue inside, spread him with his thumb. “Fuck, I’m not gonna _break_ ,” but Dean melts beautifully and doesn’t bully for more for a while. A long while.

Mumbles, eventually. Cain is so hard he fears his pants will come off on their own but the boy isn’t doing any better; leaks plenty into the loose grip of Cain’s fist and humps into it in a blind chase, rocks back on Cain’s mouth, Cain’s face. Has let go of Cain’s hair to hold his legs up instead, wide and open and milky, here. Strict tan on his face and arms and down his throat but he’s pale under his clothes; cinnamon-splatter of freckles. Those jeans are on Cain’s floor, somewhere. Cain rubs his thumb up-down just underneath the raw head so Dean huffs for him, groans for him.

Warned, “Close,” and Cain’s so gone for him already.

He drops that angry-swollen cock to see it smear through that faint treasure-trail, to make Dean writhe against him.

Babbled, “No, c’mon,” and, “Don’t stop…”

Dean doesn’t bite the fingers Cain feeds into his mouth but he looks up, blearily, for Cain detaching himself from his ass. His thumb massages over the slick mess he left while he licks his lips, his whiskers; says, “Keep holding those legs up,” and the first slap misses, but the second…!

Oh, the _second_.

Dean startles, but he doesn’t fight it.

Cain can feel him whimper around half of his hand and keeps ’em coming—across Dean’s taint, his hole, the crease of his legs. One of them right across his balls, just to see—yeah, a jolt, a noise for when he does it again just a little firmer, but those hands scramble to remain hooked into the back of his knees, and that’s it. Beautiful.

Cain’s fingers curl to feel the ribbed roof of Dean’s mouth and Dean sobs because Cain goads unnecessary, cruelly—does he like that? Hold yourself open just like that, boy; there you go.

A pause, just so it registers when his spit drizzles right over the shock-hard mess of Dean’s cock. Crowded in now with the fly of his pants crushed up against Dean’s ass, the weight of his own cock behind it and urging. Cain’s remaining hand engulfs Dean’s cock to stroke it hurried and too-tight and he feels Dean’s swallow before he moans, before he curls and seizes and spills, labored and all over himself, Cain’s hand.

Cain unearths his hand from that mouth just so he can grab and pin the hand that comes up to stop him from working Dean’s dick; a garbled, “Slow, wait,” but he keeps it up until Dean bucks, until he sobs again, for real.

Cain’s hand flies off, then; he leans down. Breathes hard into the crook of Dean’s neck before he bites it, tastes him—sweat and a splatter of bitter and Dean groans again, and he’s waiting and pushing his tongue against Cain’s as soon as Cain’s kissing him. Sucks at him, greedy, while all in Cain screams at him to just get his pants open, get _in_ there. He rides it dry, though, snaps his hips hard. Until the boy whimpers.

“Fuck,” Dean says, and he’d get a hand down to feel over his now truly irritated crack if Cain wasn’t gripping his wrists, still. Both of them. Cain fits another kiss, another half-suck to the side of that mouth before Dean evades it, begins fighting him. Cain lets go immediately, then. Sits back, lets the kid collect himself.

Migraine-sounds.

“Jesus.” Dean looks down on himself; the whole mess of it. Groans, flops back down into the sofa, the cushions. “Jesus, Lord in Heaven. You sick fucking _freak_ , man.”

Cain, the bastard, grins to himself, out of sight, behind the back of his own hand.

~

He doesn’t drop by every day. There is one half of a week where he doesn’t show up at all, and Cain keeps his face extra straight for that too-easy swagger once he catches a glimpse of it again, finally, one Thursday later. Hey, old man; you out of business yet?

A stray cat. A feral dog.

Fleeting, temporary. Always that smile before it flattens at some point. Flares up every now and then like an excited child’s but especially once the afterglow is gone and they’re just naked and dirty and his thoughts catch up to him, Dean has trouble staying focused. Staying with Cain, in the moment.

Weird scars; plenty _and_ old. Semi-fresh, some of them. “Don’t,” and a shrug out of the touch, a turn-away.

Dean pulls his clothes on like an old man, like a soldier gearing up for war. Cain watches, fascinated, with his head propped up on his knuckles and still in bed, where he plans to stay the rest of the night.

“I promised,” like he’d need an excuse. Like he owes Cain anything. “He’s got that stupid science fair coming up. Doesn’t even talk to me anymore but once he needs help, it’s all about Dean can you do _this_ , Dean can you do _that_ …!”

Dean doesn’t like to be seen to the door (I know where it is by now, thanks), and Cain might not like to see him go, but he _does_ love to watch him leave.

A shower, after. A light snack, a smoke.

~

Dean reveals, “Well,” and, “I mean, I’ve _been_ handcuffed before,” and Cain wants to know just as much as he doesn’t want to hear of it.

He says, “This is different,” and the kid lets him guide his arms, lets him pin them behind his back for him—lets him, generally.

Curious, always. Easy to read, too. Ideal.

The bright red rope looks stunning against Dean’s skin. Pressed up against his back, Cain is free to stare his fill. Muscled. Flexible, too.

“We can do your arms only at first. To see if you like it.”

Noncommitting hum. Cain ties a knot. And another. He tugs on the bundle of Dean’s forearms he created.

“How’s that feel?”

“Like I’m putting myself at the mercy of some kinky sonofabitch,” and Cain smiles for that, unseen. Dean might be smiling himself. “Do my legs too, if you want. I don’t mind.”

Minding is not the issue, no. Hogtied and on his stomach, the kid breathes tight but deep. Blinks, sensitive, for a hand up and down his spine; into his hair. Cain weaves a kiss to an elbow, a shoulder blade.

“You good?”

Dean’s reply is a sigh. A hitch to his hips when Cain flirts his thumb into his crack, nudges it dry over his asshole.

“Are you hard?”

“Like it matters.”

“Hm.” Cain settles in, keeps petting Dean’s ass. The kid moves with him, works against his hand. “Eager,” notes Cain.

An open-handed slap to Dean’s ass cheek—a yelp.

Scandalized, “Jesus.”

“Responsive.”

Dean begins, “Warn a guy,” but Cain keeps raining them down until his hand stings bad. Dean’s ass doesn’t look much better.

He nudges his knee against one of those folded legs. “Keep them open.”

Dean is snarling like a dog for the next pause, for the too-full drag of Cain’s palm over the carnage of his skin.

“Are you hard, boy?”

and Dean splutters. Grunts.

Gets Cain to spit at his ass, rub it in with his fingers all flat.

Cain prompts, “Tell me,” and pushes two of them inside.

The kid shivers; draws up around him, tries to push his hips forward, away from the invasion. A frustrated growl when Cain simply forgoes that, curls his fingers to dig into him good.

A thin, “Fuck,” and Cain steadies his knees so he can slap Dean’s ass with his other hand.

Dean truly bucks beautifully for that.

Wetter, “ _Fuck_ ,” and his ass milks tight at Cain’s fingers, draws up so pretty with every hit.

“I said to keep your legs open.”

Dean wails.

Sobs, pretty. Doesn’t object to Cain kissing his upper back, rubbing the broken skin of his ass. Knuckle-deep and rocking steady, Dean is rendered helpless.

Gulped, “You’re making me come,” and Cain groans in delight, steadies his wrist. Keeps kissing until his teeth need something more and he bites, pulls at Dean’s skin. He finds a good spot on his neck and repeats there, and Dean gasps, and despite the bondage, he fucks himself back on Cain’s hand. Rides it hard to really get it all and Cain _feels_ that, feels him trembling deep inside and giving it up in Cain’s bed with Cain’s ropes holding him down and with Cain still fully clothed on his back, in control.

Cain’s hand keeps pumping despite Dean’s efforts dying down; all blown out. Cain drinks it up—every groan, every slick-ugly noise of Dean’s ass on his fingers. He leans back just enough to spit on it again, to make it three. Corkscrews them and Dean’s legs tense for that, try to clamp together for that—Cain holds them open without effort. Keeps churning into that beautiful, deep heat. The more and more lax suck of it; so fucking willing. So easy.

“You haven’t told me your name yet,” Cain reminds, and below him, the kid gurgles an insult.

~

Anything else but skin and bones, really. Bloated around the face, sometimes. His clothes never look new but they’re not falling apart either. He showers and his hair is full, gets tended to. So, the necessities must be there, somewhere.

Cain works through the tower of books Cas so generously left behind for him. There’s no lunch rush in this kinda establishment.

The doorbell chimes. Cain slips his reading glasses off and away, stows the hardcover for later. “Good day, sir. How can I help you today?”

No reply, beeline for the whiskey.

Well, fair enough.

Cain punches the item code in already while he waits. And, sure enough—their most affordable bottle. But, on the side: one of the all-time favorite as well.

Cain gives the guy a careful once-over from below his raised eyebrow. “Will that be cash or credit?”

You get used to the faces, and this one is new. Gruff, tired; unkempt hair. The leather of his jacket competes with his aftershave. Too many moons of no shave, and his hands are big, and he throws a bunch of dirty bills on the polished oak counter between them after unearthing them from his too-rugged jeans. Cain thinks he hears the shift of a gun tucked along in there, somewhere, and counts his dollars.

Guy’s gathering his purchase before Cain’s finished, but Cain lets him.

“Have a good day, sir,”

and again, no reply.

~

“It’s all right,” admits Dean, who can’t keep his hands off the steering wheel, the leather interior. He shrugs but licks his lips and his eyes keep darting all over, taking in, admiring. “My dad’s driving an Impala, so. Call me spoiled, I guess.”

Cain scoffs, sucks on his pipe. He presses a couple of buttons. “Would you like to try the stereo?”

“Let’s see.” Dean grabs the small stack of tapes to scrutinize them. He splutters, mocks, rolls his eyes.

Cain watches him, smiling. “I take it these do not match your acquired taste?”

“Well, I—I get the Bach, dude, but damn.” He holds up a particular tape and shakes his head with a pitiful frown. “Doris Day? C’mon. You’re not _that_ gay.”

“Oh, that one is not mine. I was looking for that, actually; thank you.”

Dean scoffs, “What, is it your boyfriend’s?”

“Technically, yes. But I prefer to call us partners.”

Dean just looks at him.

Cain keeps smoking and looks right back. (Half summer already. Warm, out here on the driveway. The car had still been out after this week’s grocery run and Dean hadn’t been able to sit still—the only reason they’re not inside, evading the heat.)

Dean’s jaw sets. He turns back towards the tapes in his hands and picks the Vivaldi one. He handles the stereo a little too rough, but Cain won’t address it.

Mid-tape (oh, Cas) and the violins work loud form all around them. Dean’s face is slightly turned to his left, the rolled-down window. The hickey Cain didn’t put there looks semi-fresh. Dean hadn’t shaved this morning. Shoulders curled in, Dean listens, or at least pretends to.

“Are you sure this is okay?” he mumbles, finally, eventually. Back in the house while he plucks his shirt off himself, nearly knocks his teeth in with that heavy pendant dangling from his neck. Cain hums, straightens that necklace for him. Swoops his hand up and around that throat, cups the back of that sunburnt neck. “Does he know you’re doing this kind of shit while he’s gone?”

“Very much so,” and it’s only half a lie; they have their arrangement, of course, but Castiel detests phone calls and Cain hasn’t been in the mood to sit down and compose a letter just yet. A thumb to Dean’s bottom lip, that adorable freckle right there. “Does it bother you that much?”

“I just—” Dean hesitates, withdraws. Curls his hand around Cain’s waist though, like he wants to be held nevertheless. “I don’t wanna be that kinda guy, y’know. I don’t like this stuff ‘complicated’.”

Cain assures him, “It is not,” and, “Look at me, boy,” and Dean does, even if sourly.

Cain drags his thumb along a cheek, underneath an eye. Dean tucks him close, sighs like he’s tired. Cain shushes and lets their foreheads meet. Lets Dean hide his face in the crook of his neck, eventually.

“Fuck,” hears Cain. “You should have fucking _told_ me.”

~

Dean’s eyes blink lazy. He’s flushed, awake. Cain kisses that already-parted mouth, lets Dean suck on his tongue.

The bed groans more than the boy does.

“String me from the ceiling next time?”

Cain huffs; grins. “Would you like that?”

A fat cat noise, a grunted laugh that morphs into a sigh. “You saying that I’m too fat, huh? Can that beam not fucking carry me or what?”

“You talk nonsense.”

“You fuck me awake, that’s what you fucking _get_ , old man,” and Cain kisses him again, and Dean’s babbles lose their charm. Make way for more sighs, more kisses.

“Can you turn around? Elbows and knees?”

Dean doesn’t reply, but he begins to move. Pauses until Cain’s pulled out to flip himself over, onto his stomach—gathers his legs underneath him with his arms still stretched, the ropes now twisted, but that doesn’t matter.

What does matter: the flutter of Dean’s lashes on the push-in, the tight little groan from behind his teeth. The easy dip of his lower back, curled like this is porn, like he’s studied to look and move and act the way he does. Cain roams his hand, feels the small and big tremors as he rocks deep and careful.

“Sore?”

A mumble.

“Too sore?”

A scoff.

Cain squeezes before he slaps; feels that flinch all the way down around his cock.

Gritted teeth and, “Fuck,” but Dean shifts lower into the bed and drops his head between his hiked-high shoulders. Broken, purple-marbled. Cain hits light enough that he could do this for hours on end and not feel it in his arm at all.

Cain gets his hand between Dean and the bed once he’s worked him over plenty. Hard and dripping and a gasp; rushed strokes that mingle with the cruel snaps of Cain’s hips and swirl the boy under nearly immediately. Cain slows down. Withdraws his hand, his cock, much to the dismay of Dean.

Whining. Huffing.

Cain shushes and curls up with him. Unties him from the bed just so they can cling to each other better, so Dean is free to comb through Cain’s hair, his beard. They are both still hard, still unfinished—the shop won’t have to be opened until ten. Plenty of time for breakfast.

Cain breathes, savors. Dean’s cheap aftershave, his lackluster bodywash. The noises he withholds whenever Cain dips his fingers back inside of him, where he’s open and still wet. Dean’s cock taps against Cain’s chest, caught between them. Just another minute.

“Jesus,” from the bathroom, while Cain fixes the orange juice, the eggs. Dean emerges with the robe only deliberately tied around his waist and flapping open without shame. Cas’ slippers. Dean drags the skin of his too-young face around with his hand as he kneads through it, frowns like a heartbreak. His fingers rake higher, into his already-tousled hair. “When were you gonna tell me I look like a freaking car accident, huh?”


End file.
